


#BOOM!

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in Las Vegas, Andrew Ladd ends up soulbonded to Ryan Kesler--and it's all Biz Nasty's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-2010-2011 season; handwavey about the exact dates. Also handwavey because, you know, magic soulbonds. I love soulbond fics beyond all sense, and if anyone needed one, I think it's these two.

**#BOOM!**

On his third day in Las Vegas, Andrew Ladd wakes up stark naked with a raging hangover, a black eye, and Ryan Kesler.

He also has no clear memory of how any of these things happened.

Clearly booze is the culprit, but he can't imagine what--or how much-- he drank that would make _take Ryan Kesler to bed_ seem like a good idea. Maybe someone drugged him. It could happen! It's Vegas.

Andrew's mentally cataloguing his drinks from last night, trying to remember if any of them were an unnatural color, when Kesler opens one eye and peers up at him. "So we're starting the morning off with that creepy fucking stare, eh? Jesus _fuck_ , Ladd, that must be the reason you're still single."

It turns out that a healthy dose of morning _rage_ is really good for a headache, who knew. "And that goddamn smart mouth of yours must be the reason people have to get drunk to fuck you."

Kesler smiles at him with a swollen, split lower lip. "Good morning to you too, sweetheart."

Andrew points to the door. "Get the fuck out of here." He retains some hope that maybe this is all a really bizarre mistake, but Kesler throws that idea off along with the covers as he stands up. He's naked and his back looks like maybe someone bit him. A lot.

Andrew likes biting. A lot.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Andrew looks around the room and notices there is a chair and a table tipped over, a lamp on its side (unbroken, thankfully) and clothes strewn from the door to the bed. So, okay, he and Kesler had a fight and then caught on fire, so they had to take their clothes off and roll around to not burn the hotel down. Then they were really tired and so they went to bed. Sure. Sounds great.

The bites on Kesler's back and the stubble burn Andrew can feel on his face...he'll find some way to make that work later, when he's not so hung over.

Kesler leaves without a word, mostly dressed and carrying his shoes, obviously in just as much of a hurry to leave as Andrew is to see him go. As he slams out of the room, Andrew falls back on his bed with a sigh of relief that turns into a vaguely nauseous feeling, escalating quickly into the worst hangover he's ever had in his life. No less than he deserves, and as he stumbles towards the shower he tells himself firmly that he's going to forget that ever happened and mention it only on pain of death--which can't actually feel much worse than this headache, fuck.

Unfortunately, the whole "never think about this again" plan isn't going to work out. Because the other thing Andrew woke up with that morning was a soulbond.

He just doesn't know it yet.

* * *  
Andrew goes back to bed after his shower, but he can't sleep because the sheets are all twisted up, and there's still an indent on the pillow from someone else's head. That makes him cranky, so he punches the pillow violently in an attempt to get rid of it. That just makes him want to throw up, though.

As he lays there contemplating whether death is a reasonable price to pay for getting rid of this hangover, a few flashes from last night flicker at the edges of his memory. They're broken into booze-soaked, vaguely angry pieces, but it's enough that Andrew can figure out the basic outline of his evening. He ran into Kesler at a casino, they exchanged some words, and then Andrew started drinking straight liquor instead of beer.

Some point after that is when he and Kesler exchanged more than words, which appears to have happened in an alley after they were thrown out of a bar. There's punching and Andrew ends up with a black eye and Kesler a split lip, and wow, Andrew really wishes he remembers doing that to Kesler's mouth. God, that must have felt good...

There's a twinge when he thinks about it, enough that he wonders if he's wrong and maybe _he_ has the split lip and Kesler has the black eye. Andrew sucks his lower lip into his mouth, biting carefully to see if that's true or not. He doesn't feel the immediate, sharp pain that he should, but there's definitely something there; a weird kind of echo, like pain remembered but not experienced. And yeah, he's been knocked in the mouth himself a few times so he has a good idea what it's like, but that doesn't make any sense.

Andrew still feels like shit, but thinking about knocking Kesler in the mouth must have restorative powers; his dick hardens, and the relief of blood going anywhere but his head is actually pretty damn great. Andrew bites his lower lip again, harder this time, and he moans out loud but also fuck, ow, that hurts more than it should. What's going on, here?

There's a curious sensation like fingers brushing against his face, and then pressure against the tender skin beneath his left eye. Andrew makes a horribly embarrassing _yip_ sound when a wave of not-remembered-but-actual-pain washes over him, curling up on his side like he's three years old and just got kicked in the stomach.

Later, Andrew will think this is a remarkably accurate description of being soulbonded. Right now, though, all he knows he wants to die, kill Ryan Kesler, drink some water and eat his weight in pancakes. In whatever order that makes sense and is physically possible.

Right after he has a nap.

* * *  
Andrew is really hung-over, but he's an athlete who plays hockey professionally. Meaning he's used to abusing his body and having to get over it so he can turn around and do it again in a relatively short time frame. He finally makes himself get up and leave his room, eat something, and demolish two bottles of overpriced Gatorade from the Caesar's gift shop. That seems to be a good start on the road to post-drinking recovery.

Good. The sooner that happens, the sooner he can get drunk again.

The whirling of the slot machines and the blinking lights make him dizzy, but by the time he gets back to his room he doesn't feel quite so horrible anymore. Unfortunately, that means he can spend more brainpower thinking about having sex with Ryan Kesler. Damn it.

Andrew stands in the middle of his room and stares at his freshly-made bed as a pornographic parade of images marches merrily through his mind. He feels a wave of dizziness so strong he has to sit on the edge of the mattress and put his head between his knees.

It feels like he's not the only one in his head, and that's really fucking _weird_. Andrew sits up and takes a deep breath, tries to steer his thoughts in another, non-naked-Ryan-Kesler direction. But he's having trouble doing that, and the more he tries the sharper and more intense the images become until he's breathing too fast and rubbing his hand over his cock through his pants.

Oh, fuck this. Fine. _Fine._ Apparently it was really good sex, and his body is determined to make him enjoy it while sober, whether Kes is actually there or not. Andrew moves up the bed, glaring at the ceiling and undoing his pants one-handed. He throws his arm over his eyes and slides his hand into his boxers, intending to get this over with fast.

God, it feels good. Andrew slows down a little because chafing isn't fun, no matter how much he hates the guy he's jacking off thinking about. And he really hates Kesler, he does, he hates...hates the way Kesler shoved him up against the wall after Andrew made some snide comment about _your boyfriend, Burrows_. He hates the way Kesler moaned when Andrew grabbed his hair, hates the way Kesler shoved his thigh between Andrew's legs and said _jealous, Ladd? Don't be, we share,_ before kissing him, angry and rough.

Andrew bites his lip to hold back a moan, hips pushing up slightly off the mattress as he thinks about how good it had felt to just _let go_ for once. It was even better than on the ice because there weren't any refs to stop them. His brain moves full steam ahead to the hotel room--fuck, had they been making out in a _taxi_ on the way there? Great, that shit's gonna end up on HBO--and how they'd knocked each other around some more, their pants coming off instead of their gloves. They'd insulted each other a lot, he remembers that now.

Mostly, though, he remembers the part where they stopped talking and got into bed. Andrew is panting loud enough that he can hear it, but he doesn't care at all because he's remembering sitting astride Kesler's back, pinning him the mattress and biting him harder than he's ever bitten anyone in his _life_. He remembers every noise Kesler made, too, the way he shoved his hips forward and moaned like he was trying to fuck Andrew's mattress into oblivion.

And then Andrew remembers being on his hands and knees, Kesler's hand tight around his neck while Kesler fucked _him_ into oblivion. And Andrew--he didn't do that shit with guys very often, but it wasn't because he had some internal guilt about it or anything. He just wanted it a certain way and he was never sure how to go about getting it. The answer was obviously _fuck guys I have on-ice rivalries with_ , because holy fuck, Andrew sure as hell got what he wanted.

It's infuriating that he got it from a guy with his own fashion line, for fuck's sake, but Andrew is too turned on to care. That also explains why he's thinking about Kesler in the shower, naked, one hand braced on the wall and the other on his dick. The water's aimed so it hits all the bites on his back, and oh, Kesler likes that a lot, even though Andrew can feel how much it stings. It hurts but it feels good, too.

Andrew's impressed by his visualization techniques, and he's fisting his cock hard and watching ( _feeling_ ) Kesler do the same, panting loud and moaning and--.

 _Goddamn, Ladd, you're a bastard but you fuck like an all-star._

Wait, what? Andrew doesn't generally think of himself in the third person like that. Also he doesn't think in lame comparisons, either.

 _I fuck like an all-star?_

In-his-head!Kesler startles, his hand slowing briefly as he looks around suspiciously. _Is that...Ladd?_ Kesler's breath hitches and he twists his hand over his dick, then groans and smacks his other one hard against the tile. _Oh, fuck..._

Andrew's body decides his mind is done holding things up and goes forward without him, coming so hard he loses his breath. It leaves him weak and shaking, but the fucking image of Kesler jerking off in the shower--which he doesn't technically need anymore--won't go away, and is in fact sharper than ever.

That's so fucking typical of the guy, it really is. Andrew gasps up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath, and thinks crankily, _oh, would you just come, already?_

It's right about then that Andrew figures out something isn't right. Maybe he could buy that his brain wanted his little fantasy to have an ending and that's why he's watching Kesler come in the shower like a porn star, but the part where _Andrew_ feels it, too?

Yeah, he's got nothing.

* * *  
They agree to meet on neutral ground to talk about this, which is not as easy as it sounds.

Given what happened the night before, they rule out Andrew's room as a potential location immediately. They also decide Kesler's room is out, even though the reason -- _because there's a bed in there,_ \--is never actually voiced.

They also rule out bars, or any place that serves liquor. And casinos, given that's how this started in the first place.

This isn't leaving them with many options, considering what city they're in. Andrew picks up the small book of _What to Do in Vegas!_ coupons they gave him when he checked in and flips through it. He remembers thinking how sad it would be to actually have to use the stupid thing, because if you weren't here for the booze and the gambling, why were you _here_?

They narrow it down to three choices; a place where you can go shoot real guns at zombie-shaped targets (given their mutual loathing and competitiveness, firearms might be a bad idea), a golf course (same as above, except there wouldn't be staff around to stop them from hitting each other with the clubs), or a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. The potential to shove each other out of the helicopter is pretty low, so that one wins.

It should allow them to talk without being overheard, but also keep them from shouting things like _it's not like I planned on inviting you over to fuck me_ in front of kids. Vegas is a family town now, or so they say.

Also, helicopters are cool.

Later that afternoon, Andrew is horrified to see a long, black limo waiting in front of Caesar's Palace, with a man holding a sign that says _A. Ladd_ in neat black script. Andrew has been in a few limos in his time, mostly with half-dressed women, a lot of booze, and a very large hockey trophy. It's not his usual mode of transportation by any means, though--he doesn't play for the NFL.

"Um," Andrew says, running a hand over his hair. "What's this...?" His hair is damp because he spiked it up way more than usual, realized who that made him look like, and them promptly washed it in disgust.

"You're Andrew Ladd?"

Andrew nods.

"This is the transportation provided for your sunset helicopter tour for you and your guest."

Oh, of course it is. This is Vegas, it isn't like they could just send a bus. "Isn't anyone else going?" Andrew asks, taking a seat in the back.

The driver's voice is perfectly without inflection when he answers. "According to my information, sir, your guest is at the Belagio. Is that not correct?"

"Yeah, I meant...isn't there anyone else on the tour?"

The driver's tone of voice suggests Andrew is some kind of idiot who has no idea where he is, what's going on, or where he's going. Which is true. "Just...just you and your guest, sir. The Sunset Romance Tours do allow for more than two, but those arrangements must be made at time of purchase. We do pride ourselves on discreet service and honoring the commitments made by those in alternative relationships, which is why...well, your guest is a _Mr_ Ryan Kesler, so I thought...did you need to make any other arrangements, Mr. Ladd?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. Andrew had grabbed the first coupon out of the book and made the reservations without realizing what he'd done. _I booked me and Kesler on a romantic sunset couples tour of the Grand Canyon. Of course I fucking did._ "No, I think I've done enough arranging for one day," Andrew mutters, sliding down in his seat. God, did he piss someone off in another life? "Thanks," he adds, because he's Canadian, and gears himself for seeing Kesler again.

"You're welcome, Mr. Ladd. Please, help yourself to the champagne."

Andrew sees a bottle on ice resting on the low table in front of him, with two glasses and a single red rose. He tries to surreptitiously throw the rose out of the window, but that's not easy to do. Luckily, the driver doesn't mention it.

* * *  
Kesler is beside himself.

"Wow, Ladd," he says, sliding into the limo across from Andrew, flashing a grin that makes Andrew want to kick him and also, unfortunately, want to jump him. "Was I really that good?"

The driver, upon hearing this, puts up the divider between the two halves of the limo. Andrew envies him the ability to do that and wishes he was riding up front. "No, I--look, this isn't what it looks--oh, stop it, you know it wasn't intentional, you ass," he growls. "I just called the first one of those tour places that used the words _helicopter_ and _transportation provided_."

"Mhm." Kesler takes up more room than is sensible and sprawls out on the leather seat. He smells good, Andrew notices, then wants to throw himself out of the car. "Can I have some of that?" Kesler asks, nodding towards the champagne.

"Sure, go ahead. You're paying me back for your half of this trip, by the way." Andrew reaches for a glass, too. He'd intended to stay away from the booze during this particular adventure, but fuck it. Being sober doesn't seem like a good idea anymore.

During the trip, Andrew drinks his champagne (which he doesn't really like) and stares out of the window, watching the scenery change from high-rise glitz and neon to flat, harsh desert. Andrew's not a very talkative guy in general, but Kesler obviously takes his silence as a personal affront and starts chattering. Well-- _chirping_ might be a better word for what he's doing.

"So, is your problem with this whole thing that I'm a guy, Ladd?"

"Sorry?" Andrew stares at him. "No, my problem isn't you're a guy--my problem is you're _you_."

Kesler laughs and shifts in his seat. If he was sprawling any more, he'd be lying on the floor. "Right."

"Did it seem like it was my first time fucking a guy?"

"Are you asking if you were any good?"

Andrew counts to three, slowly. Twice. "Are you going to answer all my questions with a question?"

"Do you want me to?"

"What do you think?"

Kesler flashes a grin at him. "I think you want me to tell you that you were good at it."

Oh, for the love of God. Andrew looks up at the car ceiling, then fixes Kesler with the stare Byfuglien calls his _I might high-five you, I might cut you. You don't know._ look. "I know I was good at it, Kesler. You don't need to tell me."

It turns out that Kesler really likes that stare of his, which is gratifying, but it also gets Andrew hot and that's not helping. But it does allow them both to ignore the _somehow we're sharing a brain_ shaped-elephant riding with them in the limo. So Andrew leans back in his seat and thinks about Kesler's little shower show and keeps up the stare for the hell of it.

That wipes the smirk off Kesler's face, but it doesn't shut him up. Instead, he starts thinking about his shower show, too. And how much he'd liked the water on his back, burning hot on the bites Andrew left. Kesler spreads his arms out on the back of the seat, tilts his chin up and meets Andrew's stare with his own.

They stare at each other like they do when they're facing off on the ice; attentive to each other's every tick, every dart of the eyes, every quick indrawn breath. Andrew knows how Kesler plays, fast and mouthy, and the son-of-a-bitch is just waiting for Andrew to try and shut him down. And oh, Andrew wants to do it just as bad as ever, but what he really wants is his dick in Kesler's mouth instead of his fist in his face, so probably not a good idea.

Andrew leans back, forces his muscles to relax as much as he can, and drinks his champagne. As usual, it tastes like bubbly syrup. Playing hothead to Kesler's brat is what got them into this mess--at least, he thinks it is--and Andrew needs to re-evaluate his strategy, here. _Don't shut him down by giving in._

"I'd ask if it bothered _you_ , about me being a guy, but you and Burrows are the worst kept secret in the league."

Kesler's a professional, and he's a damn good hockey player. He sits up and attempts to look a little less sluttish while obviously adjusting his game to match Andrew's. "That's not going to piss me off, Ladd, if that's what you're after. You think I don't know that?"

"I'm not trying to piss you off, Kesler."

"No?" Kesler's smile is tight. "Then why'd you bring it up?"

This is the usual amount of words that get tossed between them before the gloves come off, so Andrew has to think about what to say next that isn't a right hook. "Do you share your happy shower time with him, too?"

That was pretty much the lamest thing he could have said, wow, maybe he should have gone for the punch after all.

Kesler snorts. "Yeah, but he's usually there. As in, _actually_ there, not just spying on me...speaking of, Ladd, do you think maybe we should--"

Andrew doesn't need their mysterious mind-sharing powers to know that Kesler's next words are going to be _talk about it_. "Yeah," he interrupts gruffly, putting his champagne glass down. "We should."

Andrew stares at Kesler again and puts a finger on the side of his head--movies have taught him this is the best way to do this--and he thinks as loudly as he can, _But I don't want to. So I'm going to straddle you instead, and we're going to make out until we get wherever we're going. Got it?_

Kesler puts his finger next to his temple, too--and then he mimics shooting himself.

Andrew decides to take that as a _yes_.

* * *  
The car stops while Kesler is sucking on his neck and trying to get his hand down Andrew's pants. Andrew has one hand in Kesler's hair and is rubbing his palm over Kesler's cock through his jeans; he'd like to say it's because he doesn't care about Kesler's dry-cleaning bill, but mostly he's just in a hurry.

They're at least with it enough to retreat back to their separate sides before the driver opens the door, but they're not fooling anyone. Andrew doesn't need to be able to read the driver's mind to know he totally figured out what they were up to.

"My partner and I have been together for fifteen years next month," he says, beaming at Andrew as he and Kesler climb out of the limo. "And we still can't keep our hands off each other, either."

Who knew his face could get _more_ flushed? Andrew certainly didn't. "We're not--we actually can't stand each other."

"You're breaking up with me on this romantic helicopter flight, aren't you," Kesler says with maniacal cheerfulness, smacking Andrew hard on the back. "Dick."

"I'm going to break something," Andrew promises darkly.

"Well, Larry and I didn't like each other much, either, when we first met," their happily-partnered driver pipes up. "You have no idea how cutthroat the world of professional limo driving can be. Especially in this town. I thought we were gonna come to blows one night after the Tyson fight. But it all worked out in the end."

Andrew and Kesler exchange a look that has absolutely no rancor in it whatsoever. Andrew also notices Kesler's hand is still on his back. "Are you both still limo drivers?" Andrew asks, curious despite himself.

"Nope." The driver nods his head towards the still, waiting helicopter. "He flies the helicopter."

Andrew tips the driver a ridiculous amount and wishes him a happy anniversary. He notices Kesler giving the man a handshake and a clap on the shoulder, and figures he's probably doing the same thing. Their driver--Max, according to the business card he hands them both--wishes them well and tells them to enjoy their dinner.

This doesn't make sense until Andrew gets a good look at the helicopter, and notices the table set up in front of it. It's straight out of the picture on the coupon he didn't look at; crisp white linen, crystal glasses, china plates.

Oh no.

"Candlelit dinner, wow." Kesler crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. "You must really want me to put out after this. I'm gonna text Burr and tell him he's got to amp up his game."

Andrew puts his head in his hands and groans.

* * *  
At dinner, they pretty much have to behave because the chairs don't look sturdy enough to support their combined weight, and everything on the table is breakable.

This means that Andrew goes all polite and Canadian, and Kesler goes all repressed and Midwestern, and they stare at each other awkwardly while eating a very good, yet apparently unending, meal.

Instead of taking the opportunity to talk about the weird thing going on, they talk about hockey. It's pretty much a given when you put two hockey players together that they will, in fact, talk about hockey. And Andrew relaxes a little bit, because Kesler's not a bad guy when he's not being a punk-ass bitch.

Andrew gets the impression that Kesler is thinking something similar about him, too.

Somehow they end up talking about Twitter, and Ryan pulls out his phone to explain it to Andrew. He leans across the table, and that's distracting because he smells good and also because Andrew just feels _happy_ being that close to Kesler, which makes no sense at all because they're not making out nor is Andrew hitting him.

"See, so, the point is to let people know what you're doing."

"Why?"

Kesler shrugs. "It's good media relations, I guess."

"It's good for your ego, too, eh?" Andrew peers at the screen. "Twenty-thousand people are following you."

"Oh, that's nothing. You should see Paul Bissonnette--you know him, right? Plays for the Coyotes?"

"No, I have no idea who he is, Kesler, please update me on the current NHL roster."

Kesler pauses in the midst of typing on his iPhone screen. "This is why people don't like you, Ladd."

"Because I'm sarcastic? And by _people_ , do you mean _you_?"

"No, I don't like you because you threw a dirty hit on me."

Andrew puts his hand on his chest and says dramatically, "Oh, my God, in a _hockey game_. I'm awful, yeah, Kesler. That's about as bad as making some comment about a guy's wife just to get a rise out of him."

"Oh, Backes didn't care. And she's hot. That's shit we do, Ladd, chirp like that at guys. Dirty hits are just..." Kesler waves a hand. "Dirty."

"I didn't--look, I didn't plan it out, it just happened," Andrew bites out, irritated. "You called me a coward, remember?"

"Yeah. Then you cut my cheek."

"You deserved it. My ribs hurt for a week after you threw me on the ice."

"Yeah?" Kesler looks up, pleased.

"Yeah."

"Good. That makes me feel better, 'cause _Hockey fights dot com_ says I lost that fight and that's what everyone on Youtube says, too."

"Because you did lose that fight," Andrew says smugly, taking a drink of his water. Which is actually white wine. Fuck, is he in the girl's seat, here? He totally is.

Kesler misses the look on Andrew's face, though, because his is screwed up in concentration. "Huh. Hey, Ladd, check this out." He passes the phone over to Andrew, who looks down at Paul Bissonnette's Twitter feed as directed.

"What am I supposed to be seeing, here, exactly? That he runs his mouth a lot? That's a shocker." How did Bissonnette have any time to play hockey, holy hell.

"Look at the one from yesterday."

"There are a lot from yesterday."

"The one with our _names in it,_ Ladd."

Andrew scrolls down and sees what Kesler's referring to.

  
_Biznasty2point0: just saw r kesler and a ladd thrown out of a bar in vegas 4 fighting haha i know how 2 fix this!! #BOOM_   


The timestamp puts the tweet at the correct time, if Andrew's hazy memory is at all correct. Las Vegas isn't very far from Phoenix, so it's entirely probable Bissonnette could have been there--how else would he have known about it? Still, this doesn't make any _sense_.

"Are you suggesting Paul Bissonnette gave us mind-reading sex powers?" Andrew demands, handing the phone back to Kesler. "Because that's ridiculous. How would that even work?"

Kesler stares at him. "Do you have a better explanation?"

Actually, he doesn't. Fuck.

* * *  
After all of the build-up, the helicopter ride nearly puts Andrew to sleep.

It's just that it's been a very long day after a very...eventful...night, he hasn't had very much sleep and he just ate a really good meal, and wine always makes him tired. Besides, Andrew spends a lot of time on airplanes. It's noisier than he's used to, but he still has to keep himself from dozing off.

Also this was the worst idea of where to go to _talk_ , because it turned out there was liquor involved anyway so they might as well have gone to a bar. And it's really hard to hear each other over the rotor.

Kesler nods towards the window. "Quite a view, eh?"

Andrew looks down, and yeah, it really is spectacular; the grooves cutting deep through the earth, harsh and yet beautiful, the setting sun turning everything into flame. He touches the cool window briefly with his fingers, turns to Kesler and says, deadpan, "It's all right. I don't see what's so grand about it."

Kesler breaks into a grin and then he cracks the fuck up, laughing so hard the pilot--Max's boyfriend, Larry--turns around to make sure Kesler isn't having convulsions or oxygen-deprived hysteria.

"Wow, either I'm really funny or you're really easy," Andrew says, and he is not pleased, he is _not_ >, that he just made Ryan Kesler break up over a really dumb comment.

"Maybe it's both," Kesler says, and his eyes are warm and his grin is really...hot, actually, and he's leaning in and kissing Andrew before Andrew really figures out what's happening.

"You're definitely easy," Andrew murmurs, reaching up and grabbing Kesler's hair. He's going to pull Kesler's head away in a minute or so. Really, he is.

"Okay, Mr. I Fuck on the First Date-- _ow_ , stop biting my lip, you fucker," Kesler growls, punching him in the shoulder.

 _I hit dirty, remember?_ Andrew smiles against Kesler's mouth. _That's how I win fights._

"Yeah, well, we'll have to see what they say about it on Youtube," Kesler mutters, then grabs Andrew by the back of the neck and pulls him in to kiss him again.

Andrew's busy, so he just thinks _they'll say the same thing as they do on the fight video_ at Kesler and kisses him back.

* * *  
Eventually they have to stop making out, because Larry makes them.

"A certain amount of physical affection is tolerated, of course, but...well, any more than that and I'm afraid..."

"We have to make special arrangements?" Andrew asks, voice rough.

"Indeed you do. Non-helicopter arrangements, at that."

"Would you drop us off at the Bunny Ranch?" Kesler asks, and Andrew giggles, feeling drunk. He's not sure exactly what he's drunk _on_ , and as his options appear to be _white wine_ or _kissing Ryan Kesler_ , he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

Andrew makes himself sit upright, because he doesn't slouch as well as Kesler does, and then tries to have the conversation they need to have before he passes out from the combination of exhaustion, wine, and just plain _weird_.

He thinks about trying the _can you guess what number I'm thinking_ game, but before he says anything, Kesler smirks at him and says, "Seventeen."

"Sixteen," Andrew answers--jersey numbers, how original--even though he hadn't been thinking of any particular number.

"Four." Kesler looks very pleased with himself. "That's the number of times you said _oh, god_ last night, by the way."

"Eighteen thousand and five. That's the number of times I've wanted to punch you in the throat since you showed up on my vacation, _by the way_."

" _Your_ vacation? You don't own Vegas, Ladd. You're not even an American."

"So? You live in Canada!" Andrew exclaims, which makes no sense whatsoever.

"You're Canadian!" Kesler exclaims back, which makes even less.

Stalemate.

"Just--if you really think this is somehow Bissonnette's fault, can you ask him about it?"

Kesler puts two fingers on either side of his head and closes his eyes. "Sure, hang on."

"Wait, he can hear you? You fucked him, too, eh?" Andrew says that before he can stop himself, but what the fuck does it matter? Kesler would hear it in his head anyway.

"I don't think this relationship is going to work if you're so possessive. I've got a lot of love to give, Ladd, and I'm too young to be tied down."

"I'm sending Burrows a sympathy card." Andrew watches while Kesler gets his phone out and starts messing with it. He has no idea what they're flying over--there could be a million Transformers down there in the midst of filming a Michael Bay movie and he'd totally miss it.

"Hey, speaking of Burrows--can you read his mind?" It never occurred to Andrew to ask that, but why the hell would it?

"Nah. Well, I mean, kind of? But just because I know him really well. I don't speak French but I've figured out what _I'm speaking French because I'm mad_ and _I'm actually speaking English but it just sounds like French because I'm excited_ sounds like, so I just go from there." Kesler looks up at him curiously. "Can you read anyone's mind? Besides mine, that is."

Andrew shakes his head.

"Aww. Been awhile, has it, Ladd?"

"Eighteen thousand and six..."

"All right, geez. What do I say? I mean, I can't just ask, _did you make Andrew Ladd want to have sex with me?_ can I?"

"No," Andrew answers. "You can't. Besides, I already know what made me want to have sex with you, and it wasn't Paul Bissonnette."

"Oh, yeah? What was it?"

"Booze. Just ask him about the mind-reading thing."

" _Hey Bissonnette why can I read Ladd's mind now?_ How's that?"

That sounds like Kesler has super powers and Andrew's just a hapless loser without any privacy. "Ask him what _#Boom_ meant."

"Do you want to do this, Mr. I Don't Have a Twitter?"

"Eighteen thousand and seven..."

"Oh, my fucking god, you're annoying." Kesler finishes his message, then tosses a crooked grin at Andrew. "The deadpan thing works on you, though."

Andrew almost doesn't hear the compliment because he's too busy hating himself for how that boyish grin makes him...use fucking words like _boyish grin_ , hell. "Thanks. And you're...I can see how you come by being a pest naturally."

"Thanks, Ladd."

"Don't mention it."

It takes them both a few minutes to notice when Bissonnette sends Kesler a message back, because they're kissing again. Then they have to find Kesler's phone, which fell off the seat onto the floor.

"You're missing the entire scenic view," Larry tells him, while Andrew tries his best not to stare at Kesler on his hands and knees on the floor and fails to look at anything else.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Andrew says dryly, and he smiles when he hears Kesler laugh, and oh, fuck, this isn't good, this isn't good at _all_.


	2. Chapter 2

**#BOOM!** (part 2)

* * *  


**Somewhere in Vegas, in a Bar with Velour Couches, Too Many Mirrored Walls, Drinks with Umbrellas and Scantily-Clad Women:**

Paul Bissonnette checks his Twitter account when a _ping_ on his phone tells him he has a direct message. It's from Ryan Kesler, and it reads-- _wtf was that boom thing man?_

Paul grins evilly, pleased, and signals to the lovely waitress wearing nothing but peacock feathers and a rhinestone bandanna to bring him another drink. Man, he loves Vegas. There's always music, always booze, always girls in peacock outfits or dressed like a tiger with latex-paint stripes.

And there's always a couple of guys who just need a soulbond to fix their problems, if you know how to do that kind of thing.

 _Damn. All that and a damn good fashion sense. Boom!_

He sends back:

 _u 2 have a soulbond now. sry. just admit it out loud 2 e/other will be ok. if not u will get sick if not around and u dont play 4 same team._

Paul doesn't wait for the next message, because right after he sends Kesler a direct message, his drink is delivered by the Peacock Girl.

Who is riding on the back of Latex-Tiger-Strip Lady.

His life is _awesome_.

**Somewhere In The Clouds Above The Grand Canyon, With Less Booze, No Scantily Clad Women, And Two Frustrated, Soulbonded Hockey Players:**

"What the fuck is a soulbond? I think he made that word up. Ask him, Kesler."

"For your birthday, I'm buying you a smart phone."

"For your birthday, I'm buying you a _shut the fuck up_."

Kesler looks up, meets Andrew's eyes, and says without cracking a smile, "I already have one of those."

"Use it." Andrew gives him a half-smile, and Kesler rolls his eyes and finishes the text.

 _whats it sounds like? oh right t glass is the word wizard not u. im the love wizard! kesler+ladd 4Eva_

"That...what?" Andrew leans forward to look at the text. Not get closer to Kesler. "What does that even _mean_?"

"It means he put a magic spell on us, Ladd." Kesler blinks. "I can't believe I just said that out loud."

"Me, neither."

Kesler leans forward. "Hey, Larry, how much do we have to pay you to take us wherever my...friend, Paul, is and set this helicopter right in front of the door?"

"It's not about money, I'm afraid. I would need a clear flight plan. And I doubt we have enough fuel. Besides, it sounds as if you two are planning on committing some act of violence on this Paul person."

"More than one act, if we're lucky," Andrew mutters.

"Ah. I'm a peaceful man, Mr. Ladd. I gave up pugilism when I decided to stop driving limos. I'm afraid I can't condone that activity."

"Would it help if we told you we beat him up sometimes as part of our job?" Kesler asks hopefully. "And it's not even illegal."

"This is Las Vegas, sir. You're not impressing me."

"Oh." Kesler looks at Andrew and shrugs. "We'll figure it out."

Andrew nods. "We can get a car," he says, reaching in his pocket. "I know this limo driver. Got his card."

Kesler holds out his fist. Andrew bumps it with his own without thinking. Hey, they're going to beat someone up together. It might not be a soulbond, but it means something.

* * *   
Paul Bissonnette doesn't go down easy, even when he's drunk

"Look, I don't know what else to tell you! You have a soulbond! Fuck, man, it's right there in the word. _Soul. Bond._ Context clues, fucker. Use 'em."

"Let's hit him again." Andrew and Kesler have pinned Bissonnette to the wall of the club they found him at, some place where everything non-mirrored is covered in velour and rhinestones.

"You don't believe him?"

Andrew makes a frustrated noise. Isn't Kesler supposed to be a hothead? "Does it matter?"

Kesler pauses. "No, not really."

"Hey! Fuck, look, it's...I told you what to do! Just say you acknowledge your soulbond and it'll be cool."

"Does _be cool_ mean it'll stop?" Andrew checks Bissonnette with his shoulder, just for saying the word _soulbond_ out loud. "I won't be able to read Kesler's mind, and he won't be able to read mine?"

Paul clears his throat, managing to look kind of guilty and also check out a waitress appreciatively as she walks by. They must be used to people being pinned against walls--all she does is ask if any of them need a drink. "Kind of? Look, it doesn't always work the same for everyone."

"How many people have you done this to?"

"Dunno, Kesler, it's not like I keep track." Bissonnette is looking up at the ceiling, blinking at his reflection. "You could maybe ask Brett Hull and Mike Modano...? Ha, I see that face you're making, Kesler! See, it could've been worse. You could've been soulbonded to Sidney Crosby or something, man, stop being a hater and chill out."

Kesler does a similar shoulder-check of his own, and Bissonnette sighs. "The mind reading will go away. It turns into like...feeling shit instead. Like you'll know when Ladd's in a good mood--if that should ever happen--and Ladd'll know when you're actually not being a buzkill, Kesler, if _that_ ever happens. That's what Hull said it's like for him and Modano, anyway. I get a Christmas card from them, you know, every year. Not everyone is as ungrateful as you two fuckers."

"Do you think one justifiable homicide will keep me out of the All-Star Game?" Kesler asks Andrew, eyes narrowed. "Lie to me if you have to, Ladd."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, the _All Star Game_?" Bissonnette scowls and shoves forward, trying to work his way free of Andrew and Kesler's hold. "See, that's what I mean. God, I should have soulbonded Laddie here to Burrows. Burr at least knows how to have fun on occasion." Bissonnette grins slyly. "So I hear, anyway."

"You and everyone else," Kesler says with a shrug.

"What happens if we don't accept your stupid..." Andrew is _not_ saying the word _soulbond_ , fuck that. "...Thing? Will the mind reading go away on its own?"

"Yeah, probably. But you'll feel really sick and miserable and shit, so I wouldn't recommend it. You won't be able to play hockey, and we all know how seriously you two take hockey." Bissonnette rolls his eyes. "If you didn't, you wouldn't need stand-up guys like me to solve your problems with magic. Now get the fuck out of here, I got plans. Gonna ride me a tiger and catch me a peacock."

Bissonnette succeeds in ducking out of their hold, then blows them both a kiss. "See you in the regular season, boys. And don't worry, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas--except for magic soulbonds, you're stuck with those. Ha, ha!"

"Promise me that when the Thrashers play the Coyotes, you'll beat the shit out of him, Ladd."

Andrew watches as Bissonnette grabs a drink with an umbrella off a waitress's tra and smacks her ass. The waitress grins at him, and Bissonnette says loud enough for Andrew and Kesler to hear, "I'm BizNasty-two-point-oh, baby. Follow me on Twitter."

"Promise," Andrew says solemnly, and that's one vow he's definitely going to enjoy keeping.

* * *

They leave the club and head back towards their respective hotels on foot. Max offered to wait for them, but they sent him on his way home to Larry. Someone ought to have a nice evening, it seemed only fair.

Andrew and Kesler are both quiet as they navigate the bright-lit, crowded Vegas streets, dodging the persistent card distributors and stepping easily out of the way of drunk people and small children. If the rest of the day hadn't happened, Andrew would have thought it was weird that there were way more kids than inebriated tourists. But today did happen, so that's the last thing on his mind.

"Okay, Ladd," Kesler says finally, bumping Andrew's shoulder with his own. "Let's get this over with." He nods towards the alley running between the Venetian and Caesar's Palace.

"What?" Andrew asks, suspicious. He might not be able to read Kesler's mind as easily as he could earlier, but he knows he's not going to like what Kesler is about to say. Nothing good happens between the two of them in alleys.

This is no exception. When they are relatively out of sight, Kesler squares his shoulders and gives Andrew his _I am going to give you the most boring post-game interview in the world and there's nothing you can do about it_ face.

"Let's do this thing. Admit we have a...soulbond."

"Are you fucking kidding? No." Andrew's voice is flat. "Bissonnette can fucking bite me."

"I wouldn't let him do that. The last person you got pissed off at and let bite you..." Kesler indicates himself. "Do you really want to be soulbonded to a guy who calls himself _Biz Nasty_?"

"Stop saying that word!" Andrew snaps, irrationally angry. No, wait, there is nothing irrational about being angry when _everything is insane_. "I'm not doing it, Kesler. Fuck, no."

"Why not? I mean, it could be worse, Bissonnette was right about that. We're a lot alike, you know, me and you."

"We are both hockey players who take hockey seriously, hate Paul Bissonnette, and like fucking men sometimes. That's about it, isn't it?" Andrew is being an ass and he knows it, but he can't help it. It's so loud, there's been no quiet for _hours_ , not even in his head because he's not the only one in it.

"Do you have that much in common with Bissonnette, or using his example, Sidney Crosby?"

Andrew sees Kesler's small smile, and _goddamn it_ , no, he's not smiling back, he's _not_. "It doesn't matter. I'm not doing it. I am not standing here and admitting I've been magic-ed into something with a guy I can't fucking stand, just because Paul Bissonnette sent a Twitter about it."

"You can't stand me?"

"I fucking hate you, you asshole." There's no heat behind his words, he's too tired to make it sound believable.

Kesler ruins any chance he has of making Andrew do what he wants when he leans in, presses Andrew against the wall and kisses him. Because Andrew is sober enough this time to recognize that Kesler is a good kisser; he's aggressive but not angry, so it's rough in the very best way. He's got a hand on Andrew's chest, holding him still, and his body is warm and fuck, oh, _fuck_.

Kesler pushes his hips forward almost lazily. "Doesn't feel like it to me," he says softly, then starts sucking on Andrew's neck. Andrew groans and closes his eyes, grabs Kesler's hair and tugs hard, shuddering when Kesler bites him on the neck and slams his other hand against the wall next to Andrew's head.

"Why don't you come hate me some more in my room, Ladd. See if my bed's as comfortable as yours."

Andrew grabs at Kesler's hips and hauls him closer, grinding their hips together and groaning into Kesler's mouth when Kesler kisses him. Andrew would be saying _yes_ , but Kesler's tongue is in his mouth so he can't actually say anything.

It's right about now that Andrew realizes three things as facts:

One, he doesn't hate Ryan Kesler.

Two, they're about four seconds away from going to bed together again, without any broken bar furniture or facial injuries required.

Three, he can't fucking handle this.

Andrew shoves him back, breathing hard and pressing the back of a shaking hand to his mouth. He has to bite the skin there between his teeth to stop himself from moaning at how fucking hot Kesler looks and how badly Andrew wants him.

"You wanna go?" Kesler asks, voice gruff, and Andrew knows he means _do you want to go have really good, rough sex with me and be sober enough to enjoy it this time?_

 _Yes._ God, yes, Andrew wants that.

Naturally, he has to make sure he doesn't do it. "Gonna fuck me into saying what you want to hear, Kesler?" Andrew sneers, shaking from want and adrenaline. "Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm not Burrows."

Kesler blinks, eyes still blurry with want, but Andrew can see them brightening with anger. "Oh, believe me, Ladd. You are definitely not Burrows."

Yeah, being mean on purpose is much better than going to bed with Kesler after settling their relatively minor differences. "It's been fun. Send a check for your half of that helicopter tour to the office in Atlanta. See you on the ice, Kesler."

"Ladd--"

Andrew pushes past him, and as he starts to walk away, he starts whistling _Chelsea Dagger_.

Andrew doesn't need a soulbond to know how Kesler feels about _that_ ; a wave of fury hits him as heads towards Caesar's, but Andrew doesn't turn around. He deserves it, he knows he does, and if Kesler's that mad then chances are he won't catch how hard it is for Andrew to walk away.

* * *  
Andrew then proceeds to be sicker than he's ever been in his entire life.

There are no _symptoms_ that he can treat, no way he can distract himself from how miserable he is. Everything aches, but aspirin does nothing and booze just makes him throw up. Showers of any temperature make him feel like his skin is being rubbed raw and then pricked by a million needles, so, yeah, those are out.

Sleeping is also out, because his head hurts but the room spins when he closes his eyes; worse than drunk-spins, worse than anything he's ever felt. He tries to sleep sitting up but it doesn't work, either. He spends most of the time lying on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed to the cool tile and all the televisions in his suite on a different channel to distract his brain.

He can't read, he can't eat, he can't sleep. Andrew attempts to send hate messages to Paul Bissonnette but he can't figure out Twitter and the laptop screen makes him dizzy. Instead, he says them out loud and hopes Bissonnette was eaten by a tiger. He's pretty sure he's missed his flight home, or is going to, because he can't remember when it is and his ticket in his suitcase which is really, really far away from the bathroom floor.

He thinks about how amazing it would be to end all this torment with one sentence said to one man, but instead of actually doing it, he throws his phone out of his window and makes the hotel staff take the ones in his room away.

It's a bratty move more typical of your average rock star or NBA player, but Andrew doesn't want the temptation. He didn't get to where he is today in his career by giving up when shit got tough, and he's not going to admit magic exists and end up saddled with a soulbond just to get rid of the flu. So what if he feels awful right now? This has to get better. It _has_ to.

 _It doesn't._

 _The third day, Andrew's had enough._

 _ _Magic: One. Andrew Ladd: Zero._ _

He drags his sorry ass to the shower, endures the excruciating pain with a grim expression, then gets dressed and heads over to the Belagio. It's sunny outside, and he's got a hat pulled low on his head but the sun feels like someone stuck a fireplace poker through his eyeballs.

The staff at the Belagio refuse to tell him Kesler's room number, and they can't connect Andrew via phone because, "The guest requested a phone-free room plan." It's obvious the desk attendant made this "plan" up on the spot to sound like it was something they actually offered, instead of catering to guests who had enough money to get away with being crazy.

 _We're a lot alike, you know, me and you._

Indeed they are. Kesler doesn't give up when shit gets tough, either, even though he's obviously feeling just as awful.

Andrew walks slowly through the Belagio casino, focusing on the dim hum and whirl of the slot machines. No one pays him any mind, despite his unkempt appearance and wild eyes, and the fact he's muttering out loud under his breath. "Fine, fine, if this fucking thing is real, then--find Kesler."

He feels really stupid, but somehow, he knows just where to go. He can feel the agony of the last few days begin to lift as he gets closer to Kesler's room--it takes awhile, though, because it's a huge fucking hotel.

Kesler throws the door open before Andrew even knocks, looking just as disheveled and miserable as Andrew. The relief is so sudden that Andrew nearly falls flat on his face. "I've never been so happy to see your pretty-boy face in my life, Kesler."

"I just want you to know," Kesler says, ignoring that, "you broke first, Ladd. Not me. You."

Andrew looks down and sees Kesler's shoes are untied but on his feet, and Andrew knows--he just _knows_ \--that Kesler had been about two minutes away from coming to find _him_. "No, I finally manned up and showed initiative. Took charge. Because I'm a fucking badass."

"Get in here." Kesler hauls him into the room with a hand in his shirt, and Andrew pulls the door closed behind him. "We're going to bed."

"You are _fucked_ if you think I'm going to put out right now," Andrew says hotly, because he might not be tormented by magic but he's suddenly very aware of being sleep deprived, dehydrated and hungry. These things do not make him very pleasant. Or horny.

Kesler laughs wildly and yanks him in closer, but that's not a good idea because they both almost lose their balance. "Oh, you're going to put out, Ladd," Kesler growls. "But first, I'm gonna get some fucking sleep. Strip."

Andrew doesn't ask why he needs to do that if they're sleeping, he just does it, and he watches while Kesler does the same. Some part of his brain appreciates the sight, and another part of his brain remembers that ad of Kesler in his underwear and wants to make fun of him.

 _All_ his parts want sleep, though, so he crawls in the bed and waits while Kesler closes the blinds and turns off all the lights. Kesler gets in bed and presses up against Andrew's back, one arm slung around his middle and one leg thrown over Andrew's, like he's keeping him there. Like Andrew wants to leave and feel like death warmed over again.

"You know, Andrew, I thought I hated you before," Kesler says crankily, rubbing his face back and forth against Andrew's neck like he can't help himself. "But now I know that's not true. Because I have learned what _hating Andrew Ladd_ feels like these last two days, and it wasn't the same at all."

Andrew's eyes slide closed like they have weights on the ends of his eyelashes. "Glad I could help you out, Ryan," he says on a yawn, and then falls asleep.

* * *   
For the second time since arriving in Las Vegas, Andrew Ladd wakes up stark naked with a raging hard-on, a fading black-eye, and Ryan Kesler.

 _Irony: 1, Andrew Ladd: 0_

 _He feels a lot better, physically; he's hungry, and he really wants to shave, but his body has other ideas. Probably because Kesler is biting him on the neck and pushing his hips against Andrew's ass, letting Andrew know he's not the only one who woke up happy._

 _"First you get me drunk, now you're trying to fuck me in my sleep?" Andrew looks over his shoulder, inhaling sharply as Kesler bites him again. "Kinky."_

 _"I didn't get you drunk the first time. You got yourself drunk."_

 _"Yeah, well, because of you. That counts."_

 _Kesler is mouthing at his neck. "No, it doesn't."_

 _Andrew tilts his head so he can have more room to keep doing that. "Says who?"_

 _"Me." Kesler's hand is suddenly moving over his hip, fingers brushing against Andrew's dick._

 _Andrew sucks in a sharp breath. "Who appointed you Captain Kesler of the-- _oh_ \--" He grabs the sheet and fists it hard, breathing getting fucked up as Kesler starts jacking his cock. This is the best a handjob's felt in _forever_ , and Andrew is appreciative of all the handjobs he happens to get so that's saying a lot._

"You have to put out now," Kesler tells him, slowing his hand practically to a stop and easing his grip.

Andrew reaches down and grabs Kesler's wrist, tugging in frustration and forcing Kesler's fingers tighter around him. "I was already tortured by three days of misery into getting into bed with you, can we move on?"

"Wow," Kesler says dryly. "Hot. Talk to me some more, Ladd, you're so _good_ at it."

"Sure thing." Andrew starts moving Kesler's hand on his dick. "Here. I might as well show you how I like it, just in case you want to torment me into bed again."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kesler groans, but he laughs and bites Andrew's shoulder lightly. "Fine. Show me."

Andrew does, and it's either because of their soul-whatever or Kesler's athletic coordination that he's doing it perfectly in no time at all. Perfect enough that Andrew drops his hand away and grabs the sheets again, pushing forward and fucking Kesler's fist as hard as he can.

"Fuck, yeah, that's hot." Kesler mutters in his ear. He's moving with Andrew, his cock rubbing against Andrew's ass. "Gotta say one thing about you in bed, Ladd. You get into it, whether you like a guy or not."

"I like you a lot a right now," Andrew pants, turning his head and meeting Kesler's eyes. "I'd like you even more if you sucked me off."

"Are you going to ask me nicely?"

"No, but in about fourteen seconds I'm going to come all over your hand," Andrew points out. "Then you'll have lost your opportunity."

"To suck you off?"

Hearing Kesler say that almost makes Andrew come right then and there. "For me to--fuck--like you. More than I--I do now."

Kesler slows his hand again, but at least he keeps his grip tight. "But you do like me, don't you."

"Not if you keep _stopping_." Andrew tries to tug Kesler's wrist again, but he's not having any of it.

"Oh, come on, Andrew." Kesler sounds way too pleased with himself. "You like me. I've charmed you. Admit it."

Andrew is not using the word _charmed_ , no way in hell. He grabs Kesler's hair, pulling hard enough that Kesler's grin fades and turns into a choked moan. "You better be Captain Kesler of Sucking Cock," he growls. "Fine. Yes, I like you."

"There, was that so hard?" Kesler asks, making them both snicker like twelve-year-olds. He manhandles Andrew onto his back and shoves his legs apart, settling between them. "Just so you know the gameplan, Ladd--I'm going to fuck you senseless after this blowjob."

That sounds great to Andrew, but he'll be damned if he expresses any enthusiasm not currently being expressed by a certain part of his anatomy. "Okay, but you're buying me a steak when we're done. I'm fucking serious, Kesler."

"Steak and a blowjob. You're a simple guy, Ladd." Kesler disentangles himself and moves down in one smooth motion so he's lying between Andrew's legs. "Be really loud, okay? My ego likes it."

"Surprise, surprise." Andrew settles back with his arms crossed behind his head. "Get to it, Captain."

Kesler smacks his thigh really hard, but he also sucks Andrew's dick in his mouth at the same time so Andrew forgives him. And Kesler's not exaggerating his skill with blowjobs, either, holy fuck. It doesn't take long at all before Andrew has both hands in Kesler's messy hair, making more noise while getting a blowjob than he's ever made in his _life_.

It's obvious Kesler likes that, too; not only can Andrew hear him making a pleased noise about it, but he can feel it with the bond of theirs. It's pretty cool, because it's a feedback loop of feeling really _good_ , which is so much better than the last three days that Andrew can barely stand it.

Kesler is doing something that should earn him a penalty with his tongue, and his fingers are _everywhere_ , and Andrew is pretty sure that noise he's hearing is Kesler choking on his dick. He raises up so he can see for sure, hands still tight in Kesler's hair (thank god for all that strength conditioning), but the sight is too much for Andrew to handle.

Kesler looks up at him and Andrew can see him grinning around his cock. Andrew really likes seeing how much Kesler is enjoying sucking him off, a thought which he decides he needs to share. _That's good for my ego, too._

Kesler chokes on a laugh instead of his cock this time, and he _winks_ at Andrew and then does the illegal thing with his tongue again. _Hang on, Laddy, it's about to be even better for mine._

Andrew gives a sharp, loud gasp and his hips arch up off the bed. "Holy fuck, _Ryan_ \--" His only warning before he comes is a ridiculous, ineffective smack to the side of Kesler's head. Andrew doesn't hear Kesler laughing because of the whole _coming so hard I'm dying_ thing, but he knows Kesler's doing it.

The first thought he has when his brain un-mushes isn't one of his own. _Told you I was good._

It should bother Andrew that he can hear Kesler in his head again, but he doesn't care about shit right now. "Hell, yeah," he says, or tries to--it ends up sounding like _hlyehhh_ but whatever, close enough.

Kesler laughs and crawls up to kiss him, which Andrew is fine with, absolutely. He's also fine with Kesler shoving him around and getting him on his hands and knees, because Kesler is saying things like, "Hurry up, goddamn it, Ladd," in this really tense, _I want to fuck you right now_ voice.

"I do want to fuck you right now," Kesler growls, finally getting Andrew where he wants and kneeling behind him. Andrew is having trouble keeping himself upright, which he thinks is perfectly understandable, but Kesler grabs him by the back of the neck and forces Andrew to look at him. He doesn't look amused anymore, he looks _determined_ , and yeah, that's really goddamn hot. "And I want you to remember it this time."

"Yeah? Then you better make it fucking memorable," Andrew drawls, faking a yawn.

"Sure thing." Kesler shoves his fingers in Andrew's mouth. "Now shut up and pay attention." _And shut up in your head, too._ That last bit is a little too desperate-sounding, and Andrew bites Kesler's fingers and doesn't bother hiding his laugh.

 _Chirping during sex gets you off, ha! Fuck, no wonder you like Burrows. Hey, a few nights ago--when I was drunk, did I say really good, insulting shit that made you fucking hot for it? Is that why you wanted to fuck me?_

"Yeah," Kesler pants, pulling his fingers out of Andrew's mouth and rummaging around the tangled sheets. "That's why I wanted to fuck you after you cut my cheek in that fight, too."

 _Huh?_ It's not a very clever response, but Kesler's fingers are slowly pushing into him and that's taking the clever right out of Andrew's brain.

"Our fight, Ladd. The one you said you won." Kesler pushes another finger in, stretching him slowly.

"I did win it," Andrew gasps, forcing himself to breathe slowly. "Check... _ah, fuck_...check Youtube."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

"Yeah, but you didn't mean it." When Kesler starts fucking him hard with his fingers, Andrew shoves his hips back to meet him. "So you wanted to fuck me after I kicked your ass? Tell me more about that, Kesler."

Kesler smacks Andrew on the back, then pulls his fingers out and messes with the lube some more. "I wanted to fuck you, but I wanted to shove something in your mouth to shut you up _more_."

Andrew's not sure he believes that, but sure, he'll play along. "Like what?"

Kesler shifts, the head of his dick a blunt, sudden pressure. "My hockey stick."

Andrew draws in breath to laugh at that, but it comes out as a groan when Kesler starts pushing inside him. "You just want me to say your stick is too big, don't you."

Kesler's hands are tight on Andrew's hips as he starts fucking him, hard and rough right from the start. "You've got a big fucking mouth, Ladd, it'd fit. But then I had a better idea."

"Yeah? What?" Fuck, Andrew half-wishes he hadn't gotten off already so he could do it again. Andrew drops down on his elbows, changing the angle and shuddering at how good that feels to them both. "What were you gonna put in my mouth, Kes?"

"Fuck, I--" Kesler's words get caught on a groan, and he finishes the rest of that in Andrew's head. _I'll show you._

Andrew is momentarily distracted because Kesler is fucking him so hard the mattress is moving off the bed frame, but the image that suddenly appears in his mind manages to catch his attention. It's him, Andrew, half-dressed and bent over the bench in the Canucks' locker room. His arms are tied behind his back with--are those _skate laces?_ \--and his mouth is covered in hockey tape.

Kesler is on his knees and fucking imaginary!Andrew just as hard as he is fucking the real one, and Andrew is making about the same amount of noise. Kesler's saying really, really hot things like _yeah, fuck you, take it for me, Ladd, that's it--take it and like it, you fucking prick._

Andrew can feel how hot that fantasy got him, and oh, now Kesler's showing Andrew how he went home and jerked off thinking about it. And he can also tell Kesler is slightly hesitant to share this with him, as if he's worried what Andrew will think.

Well, that's an easy enough fix. Andrew pushes himself up, presses his palms flat against the headboard for leverage, and _shoves_ backwards as hard as he can. _I'd have the same fantasy about you, if you ever managed to actually kick my ass in a fight._

Kesler thrusts hard and presses his chest against Andrew's back, then bites the fuck out of the back of Andrew's neck as he comes. Andrew feels it in that weird, second-hand way he remembers from last time; an echo, more or less, not as good as the real thing but still pretty great.

When it's over, he lays on his stomach and drifts in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of Kesler gently moving off of him and getting out of bed. "Get me a loaded baked potato with my steak, eh? With bacon. Oh, and some apple juice."

" _Apple juice_? With _steak_?"

"Fuck you, I like apple juice." Andrew smiles briefly. "Just do it, and I'll let you tape my mouth shut with hockey tape."

"I don't have any with me."

"Biz was right, you know, you kind of _are_ a buzzkill. But I meant later, when we're actually playing hockey and you might have a roll or two around."

Kesler is quiet, and then he says softly, "So that means..."

"Oh, I'm not fucking going through that shit again, Mr. I Live Thousands Of Miles Away." Andrew yawns, turns his head and gives Kesler a sleepy glare. "We can have a soulbond, but I'm getting something out of it."

"You're getting apple juice and steak, remember?"

"That, and blowjobs. And I'm going to fuck _you_ , too--I'm not your goddamn bottom boy, Kesler, no fucking way. Not all the time, I mean. And I _really_ want to give Burrows shit on the ice about how much his boyfriend likes white wine and helicopter rides." Goddamn, pissing off Alex Burrows is going to be Andrew's new favorite thing, ever.

"And I'm going to tell Byfuglien you have a fetish for hockey tape and apple juice," Kesler chirps back.

"He already knows about the apple juice, and _you_ have the fetish for the hockey tape, Kesler, I'm just being accommodating."

"That's a first."

"Don't get used to it." Andrew's nearly asleep when Kesler comes back to bed after ordering their meal and lays beside him.

"So, we should...?"

Oh, hell no. "No soulbonding until after steak."

Kesler sighs. "Maybe I should have soulbonded to Sidney Crosby, I bet he'd shut up every now and then."

"I bet you'd have to order him apple juice, too," Andrew points out. "To go along with his kid's meal."

"That'd be a lot cheaper than that steak I got you."

"Damn right," says Andrew smugly. He may be easy, but he's not cheap.

* * *  
When they've both showered, eaten, and argued for ten minutes over what to watch on television, Andrew accepts there's no more putting it off. "All right, let's...look, if this doesn't do anything and Bissonnette is punking us?"

"...no one will ever know. Because we won't tell anyone, and he'll be dead."

"Good. I'm glad that's settled." Andrew clears his throat and looks at Kesler, opens his mouth, and then shakes his head. "You. _You_. And me. What the fuck."

"Yeah, I know." Kesler does his _I sprawl in ways you can only dream of_ thing in his chair and cocks his head. "It's not going to be so bad, you know. We'll piss each other off, my team's gonna skate circles around yours, and you can chirp at me from the penalty box."

"And get you hot."

Kesler nods. "And get me hot."

That reminds him of something. Andrew wishes that the whole mind-reading thing they had going lasted just a _little_ longer after sex so that he didn't have to actually ask this out loud. "Burrows? I mean, he's your...you know."

"My worst-kept secret in the league?"

"Yeah." Andrew rakes a hand through his damp hair. "I don't--look, I don't want to mess your shit up."

"You did that already, remember?" Kesler mimics pointing to his cheek.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, is this about _hockey fights dot com_ again?" Andrew scowls. "I meant--you know what I meant."

"Yeah. And no, it's okay. I told you, we share."

"Sure, but do you share with _soulbonds_?"

Kesler's dark eyes are wide. "Wow, Andrew, you've said that word at least six times since you showed up. I'm proud of you for overcoming your personal shortcomings."

"Eighteen thousand and forty-three..."

Kesler snorts. "Only forty-three? Funny. And don't worry about it, okay? It's Burr. He's...he's very...French."

Andrew waits for something else to follow that, but nothing does. "Oh, right. Of course. That explains it."

Kesler waves a hand. "Trust me, okay? He'll be fine."

Andrew looks at him doubtfully. "Really?"

"He might insist on a threesome so he can pull your hair, but you know." Kesler shoots him a devious grin. "That's the price you pay for getting in on this hot action, Laddy boy."

There is absolutely no way Andrew can respond to that statement. "Don't call me that. And can we just get this over with?"

"Oh, _now_ who's in a hurry to admit we have a soulbond?"

"Ryan."

"Yes, Andrew? You go first, if you're so excited about it."

"Fuck, I wish I still hated you. I really do. Fine, okay--what am I supposed to say, again?"

Kesler points at him. "I see what you did there. Nice try. You _owe_ me for that three days, Ladd, so go on and stop stalling. Admit we have a soulbond."

"We have a soulbond." Andrew waits, but absolutely nothing happens. Other than he feels like an idiot.

"I think you're supposed to say it with your name. And mine. That's what Biz said, anyway."

"Right. Biz Nasty, the expert on soulbonds. Jesus," Andrew swears, then clears his throat, looks at Kesler, and says in a cranky voice, "I, Andrew Ladd, have a soulbond with you, Ryan Kesler. That I didn't want or in any way seek out, but will accept because I can't play hockey when I'm that sick, and you're pretty good at blowjobs and that was a really good steak."

Kesler chokes on his water, then pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of each eye with his napkin. "That was so touching, how can I possibly follow it? I, Ryan Kesler, who is much better than you at hockey--"

"--Me and my two Stanley Cup wins will just be over _here_ \--"

"--Do hereby admit I have some kind of magic soulbond that makes me actually want to spend time with you, Andrew Ladd, outside of bed. And also makes me laugh at your stupid jokes and think whatever it is your hair does after a shower is attractive."

They both wait, barely moving, waiting for something to happen. For a second Andrew is convinced they have indeed been punked, but then he feels a weird twist in his stomach and sees a bright flash behind his eyes, and somehow he just knows it's done, settled.

He has a soulbond. With Ryan Kesler. All he really wanted from this vacation was to have a good time and maybe get laid. _I'm going to have to be more specific the next time I book a trip. Thanks, Expedia._

"I think that's it," Kesler says cautiously. "Don't you?"

Andrew nods and finishes his apple juice. "I sure as fuck hope so."

Andrew swears he hears a familiar voice say _boom!_ , and Kesler startles like maybe he hears it, too. Neither one of them mention it, though.

It seems safer that way.

\--end


End file.
